The Contest
by Victoria Quynn
Summary: A competition at Devil's Hole. Who will win? From the vault.


The Contest

"Come on, Heyes, you can do better than that!"

"Go, Kid! Ya almost got him!"

"That's it, Heyes, just a little more!"

"Dang, Kid, you're losin' your grip!"

The Devil's Hole Gang cheered their leaders on.

"Put your heels into it, Heyes!"

"You're gettin' the better of him now, Kid!"

Hannibal Heyes squinted as rays hit him from the west. His lucky coin had failed him this time, and his partner had positioned himself well. However, Heyes was not about to concede to a blinding sun. He kept his eyes lowered, his sightline to Kid's boots. Though Kid Curry had ten pounds on him, his heels were flat. Heyes smiled as his own slightly curved ones dug in at an angle, planting him solidly as his rear almost touched ground. He saved himself just in time.

At the other end, focusing as hard as his partner, Kid Curry thought he felt callouses rising underneath his gloves. He reckoned the sun had moved slightly since they started, so it must be fifteen, maybe twenty minutes by now. In charge most of the way, he loosened his grip just a tad momentarily to flex his shooting hand and was met with a tug forward. Heyes surprised him. Curry would concede most mental gymnastics to his partner any day of the week, but here his brawn should win out. However, each partner knew and respected the other's capabilities in all realms.

"Go, Heyes, you're gainin' on him!"

"Tighten up, Kid. Dig in harder!"

Although both could conceivably win, neither held the advantage for long. Back and forth it went, groans and cheers to accompany each move. As soon as one man's flag neared center, adrenaline hit and he pulled it right back. Center was home. One flag over center and spoils to the victor. Crossing the line was not an option for either man.

Fleeting thoughts came and went. How had they been talked into this? Neither usually felt the need to appear the stronger in front of the men. Indeed, a united front was their common goal, even if they privately disagreed. Heyes felt his hands cramp; Curry the same. Neither right now could figure which of the gaggle of outlaws sided with whom. Lobo perhaps for Kid; Preacher maybe for Heyes. Hank probably for Heyes; Charlie for Kid. Each had most recently ridden with one or the other to drum targets for this season's jobs, confident of good hauls. Kyle likely cheered for both. Wheat might as well, making sure to be on the side of the winner.

Curry and Heyes fought on. The cheering quieted. Men thinned out for a few minutes, attended to their business; returned to find much the same. The rope barely went slack. Wait! A foot this side for Kid. No! Now six inches in Heyes' favor. It looked as if the several yards to achieve victory might never be gained.

"Keep goin', boys!"

"Kid, I kin hear yer stomach clear over here. 'Bout time ya let Heyes take it!"

"Heyes, ya keep at this too long, yer brain's gonna be too addled to plan!"

With that, each competitor found new life. Heels re-dug in, they lost traction in loose furrows of ground at their feet, now too soft. Kid's calf pained him; for Heyes, a thigh. Now reversed. Then, a shoulder, an elbow. Grimaces beheld determination; belied teeth aching from clenching. And still, they kept on.

Grit might portend an outcome. Motivation, an aftermath. A frayed thread, though ...

Straightaway, each competitor fell backwards, landing with a thud at his end of the field of battle. Stunned momentarily, the crowd dispersed to offer aid to both, bringing each to his feet in turn. Regaining their bearings, they spied the other and met in the center, where the contest had started. There, they locked hands. Most of the assembled offered "atta boy" claps on backs and shoulders.

"Wha' happened?" One outlaw picked up the tool of competition, examining it thoughtfully. "Dang!"

Gaining his attention, Hannibal Heyes paused from conciliatory congratulations. "What is it, Kyle?"

All now focused on the blond man.

"Aw, Heyes, we'll hafta make 'nother trip to town fer more supplies."

"Why? We have everything we need."

"This ain't the good stuff."

Heyes and Curry grinned, locked eyes, then turned to Kyle. The blond outlaw held the frayed ends in his hands, his countenance a wonderment of confusion.

Wheat stepped forward and slapped him on the back, turning him toward the bunkhouse. "C'mon, Kyle. It's good stuff when this foolishness stops and we get to quietin' the racket Kid's stomach's makin'. Let's eat."


End file.
